


Deducing the detective

by MimitheBrave



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Deducing Emotion, Deduction, Feels, First Kiss, First Times, John decucing Sherlock, M/M, Memories, Post-Reichenbach, Reichenbach Feels, Reunion Fic, Sherlock returns, pre-season 03, remembering, suicide note, without Mary
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-23
Updated: 2014-08-20
Packaged: 2018-01-09 19:16:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1149797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MimitheBrave/pseuds/MimitheBrave
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It's just a magic trick." Words that were spoken in a suicide note almost three years ago, and John was about to discover if they had been meant as a hint, or a taunt. - John and Sherlock meet again in 221B, and to rebuild what has been smashed by the fall, first there's a need to deduce - in this case, each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Dust and Marble

**Author's Note:**

> Hello and welcome to my take on the Reichenbach feels. I know it's a bit late, but I couldn't finish this in time before the new season came out.. I just wanted to write out my vision of their reunion (okay, one of my reunion visions. there's been loads of them).  
> Enjoy!

„One more thing, one more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don't be -dead. Would you do this, just for me? This... Stop this. Stop. It...”.

 

John could hear his voice break, could see his face twist in the distorted reflection on the black marble headstone. Waited, anxiously, for a reply, anything. A miracle “just for me”, like he counted. Like he'd thought he counted. Of course, nothing happened, no one replied, no matter how much he felt he was being watched.

 

He felt the grief returning, stinging from under his eyelids, slipping out hotly, choking him. Just a few seconds, he let himself cry, heard the small, helpless noises forcefully pressing from his throat. Then, he wiped his eyes, squared his shoulders, nodded at the grave, just once, the way a captain would be expected to do when given orders to resume duty by a superior officer. Turned around and walked away.

 

Alone. No whipping coat to follow anymore.

 

* * *

 

After that last visit to the grave, it took him six more months of isolation and therapy to finally come back to the one place that could either console or destroy him. 221B Baker Street.

 

Even the front door of 221 Baker Street was almost too much to take in, and John was suddenly glad he hadn't given in to the impulse to tell Mrs. Hudson that he was coming here. His keys still fit even after half a year, of course, why would he feel so conscious about a pair of keys now? He hurried up the stairs before the urge to flee could become too strong, only stopping for a moment when his key, again, unlocked a familiar door. The metal teeth of the key scraped lightly over his palm, strangely reassuring, like the lonely piece of brass forgave him his long absence.

 

Holding his breath, John stepped over the threshold and forced himself to look. Dust was dancing through the apartment, stirred by the movement of the door. Everything was the same, but it looked all wrong and misplaced, like someone had moved everything just a few millimeters. Maybe to a different dimension. John stared, in a somewhat unhinged manner, at the dust particles as they settled on the rug before he remembered how to move his eyes again.

 

He took in the bullet holes and the spray paint on the wall, the leather chair sitting across the cozy arm chair, the skull on the mantelpiece, probably returned there by Mrs Hudson a while ago, lastly the couch. He realized then that the profound feeling of wrongness came not only from the memories assaulting him in this room, but from the fact that he couldn't feel the presence of that mind, much bigger than his or anyone's, thinking out loud, never saying a word.

 

There was no one occupying the whole couch to stare at the ceiling, so John gingerly took a seat, laid down and turned on his back. 

 

Hm. Odd.

 

He didn't feel anything. Nothing in particular, at least. No sudden closeness to what was gone. What did he expect, anyway? The appearance of some relic of that great mind that used to take up so much space in this very spot where his head now touched the worn leather, maybe smooth as the curls that used to rest here- and this was the moment where his eyes snapped open and he noticed he forgot to breathe again. All heaving chest and racing heart, John was the very picture of pathetic.

 

“Dull.”

 

His memories could only do a faint impression of that dark, rich drawl, but still it was almost enough to send him into another coughing fit. Now he hadn't come here just to indulge in a good old panic attack (had enough of these for a lifetime, and no, no he didn't want to see some more), so John carefully took his hands down from where they were moving to scratch at his eyes and clasped them together in front of his knees, schooling his breathing into the controlled rhythm he learned through many embarrassing psychiatric sessions. After a couple liters of dusty, solitary air, the blackness around his vision ceased and he stood up from the couch (thinking spot no longer) to continue his ineffective search for traces of his personal ghost.

 


	2. Glass and Smoke

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John smashes memories and breathes them out in smoke. He is still alone.

_"The stuff that you wanted to say... but didn't say it? ...Say it now!"_

 

No. ...sorry, I can't.

 

_"There's all this stuff... the science equipment. I figured I could donate it, give it to a school maybe.._

_Maybe if you could -"_

 

No, sorry, I can't, I can't go back there just now...

 

* * *

 

John remembered hearing himself say these words to his therapist and his old landlady as though he was listening to the main character in a particularly depressing movie, detached and void of emotion. His life was one big tragically depressing movie, anyway, John mused while he moved around in the kitchen, running his hand over the flat surface of the kitchen table, obscenely devoid of elaborate glass tubes and forgotten tea cups. A movie about duty and loneliness and fear, and finally the trauma inducing combination of those three, suddenly laying out big and small joys for the protagonist to discover around every corner, only to rip them away from him before he could even fully believe that he had them, that these amazing things were happening in his story. And always all at once, too, here one second and gone the next.

 

Mrs Hudson, the good soul, still convinced he was grieving not only for a friend, but a lover, would sometimes pat his shoulder and say that she understood, how he must miss his silly detective, how he should try and stay chipper, as he might just find someone new one day. "Maybe they're just waiting to bump into you around the corner, dearest."

 

Some vicious shard of him resented her for even thinking that, making him think about it too. Making him wonder about things, a lost future that held no relevance in this damnable, empty room and thusly shouldn't be wondered about in the first place.

As it was, he still would wonder, just the tiniest fragments of thoughts – about how some of those things (small actions, words or their absence) might have turned into actual, tangible things if given time. But time was exactly what Sherlock had taken away the instant his head hit the concrete, leaving John nothing but his blood on the pavement.

 

* * *

 

Not even an actual darn note. Although Sherlock, so used to accurately storing up a library's worth of words in his head with a glance, might actually say that since he narrated his note to him, it was the same as writing it down, and it must be so nice to have the time to get caught up in sentimental values of the medium when all that mattered was the message. Never been one for McLuhan's theories, John, don't be daft.

 

And now he was angry, and angry was good, and so John tore open the cupboard, blindly grabbing for the last row of cups and glasses and they came tumbling out with one sweeping motion of his arm and the sound of them shattering was the first noise he heard in this goddamned morgue that didn't even display body parts anymore.

But the silence that followed the crash of innocent crockery was even worse, making his ears ring with its wideness. Making him think about how silence used to be extremely rare in these rooms, making him miss some things, like gunshots and violin serenades and the sound of a pen, jotting down notes to a new melody, and most of all, making him miss a dark tenor that used to nag or scold or amaze him with the words it formed.

Hell, he even missed the sound of the telly, ever present during take-away dinners when Sherlock pretended to eat up and John would raise a stern eyebrow and sometimes Sherlock would actually eat up then, only to hand him the empty dish like an Earl's gentle gift to a peasant, all while some bloke on the evening program would talk about how he lost eight stones and felt so much more confident in his new body, and then they'd both suggest changing the channel at the same time.

 

* * *

 

John didn't know how long he'd been standing in front of the disheveled cupboard, but he noticed that his shoes had somehow shifted closer to the sharp shards of china and glass on the floor, stomping on them in a disturbingly systematic way, and so he moved away quickly before one could actually force its way through the soles of his canvas loafers. The time for bloodshed in these rooms, be it scientific in nature or otherwise, was long gone.

 

He wondered briefly if he should, hell, could go into Sherlock's room and almost immediately decided against it, instead stepping out of the kitchen to walk in front of the mantelpiece. Breathing deeply to calm himself since he was half convinced another panic attack had been in wonderful progression while he'd been stomping on the sharp mess on the kitchen floor, John stopped there, gazing at all of the tidbits that clattered every available surface. Of course, all of them were - had been - Sherlock's (like a magpie decorates its nest with shiny things, Sherlock decorated his with the obscure items he picked up during and in between cases), safe for the pack of cigarettes that John had planted under the skull one day in case the brilliant but reluctantly clean idiot required the smaller evil of his addictions to escape the worst one.

Not that it'd helped any, John mused as he idly lifted the skull, a little surprised to find that Sherlock left the pack in there. On a whim, he took both the skull and the pack and carried both to the armchair, settling in the familiar piece of furniture (never mind a light cloud of dust rising as he sat down). He opened the pack – one cigarette was missing (huh.), a slim lighter was violently stuffed in the narrow space. John turned in his seat, making sure not to look at the empty leather chair across the narrow space but only at the skull, now sitting in front of him on the coffee table, and spoke the first words in this room that had been his definition for the term "home" since he deserted it.

 

"Sorry I couldn't be arsed to come here for such a long time, mate. Must've been a real drag, even for you. Cheers", and like the mad person he'd become, he lifted a cigarette in the general direction of the skull in a mock toast, put it between his lips and lit it.

 

The first couple of drags almost made him cough like a schoolboy, but the rest of the cigarette went down his windpipe easy enough, and John, surrounded by the deadly fumes, found he suddenly had no trouble breathing at all.

In fact, as he threw the still rather long stub on the coffee table where it hit the skull in the left eye socket ("Apologies, mate"), he felt as though a weight had lifted off his chest, not all of it mind you, but enough to feel calm instead of agony wash over him as he just inhaled the lingering scent of smoke, watching the afternoon sun rays slowly flicker out of existence from behind his eyelids. Deliberately shutting out the world, eyes closed, he felt alone as always, but still, this was sanctuary.

Only the skull, the glint of the spent cigarette stub long gone from its eye socket, kept him company as John fell asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please take the time to comment if you enjoyed, it would make my day!


	3. Streetlights and Silhouettes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The detective returns to the doctor.

 

"I hadn't realized you'd be this eager to follow my example, John."

 

He woke up slowly, like sleep was unwilling to let him go just yet, understandable since he kept avoiding it out of fear of dreaming. The first thing he noticed was that there was still a smell of stale smoke around him. The second was an ache in his neck where it had cramped from his ill-chosen sleeping position. His third conscious thought was about the darkness in the flat; night had fallen, the only source of light came from the window, and it was a testimonial of how tired he had been that it took the fourth thought to notice this: he was no longer alone in the flat, and the words he'd just heard weren't just remnants of a dream.

 

* * *

 

In the leather chair across him, a silhouette was lounging, half hidden in the darkness, not moving except for the relaxed breathing of someone who had plenty of time to settle in their seat. As much as John would have liked to think he were still dreaming, his instincts told him otherwise and he already confirmed that there were no other adversaries in the vicinity, his muscles were subtly tensing and he was ready to strike in a heartbeat when – and _it can't be_ –

 

> "John."

 

Frozen mid-strike, John stared. And stared. The silhouetted figure in _his_ chair moved forward, slowly and non-threateningly, and eyes he last saw wide open and discoloured like the river of death contrasting crassly with vivid red came alive in an illuminating sliver of the streetlights shining in from the window.

 

> "I would prefer to think that you know better than to try and conveniently set yourself on fire, or even take the slow route with a socially acceptable poison.",

and that was the voice he last heard whispering goodbye, there was white noise rushing through his nervous system and still _it can't be_ -

 

> "Although the lack of nicotine stains on your fingers and teeth in combination with the absence of an ashtray on the table, and the fact that you only lit one cigarette and didn't even complete the smoke, more than a third still left before the filter – and obviously you were still awake when you stopped, consciously throwing it away – clearly indicates that this was a one-time-only event, not even mentioning that it doesn't appear like you have been here for at least, six to ten months I'd say; Mrs. Hudson cleaned once a week but there's a cover of wax cloth on the armchair that you didn't even notice before sitting down in a layer of dust that must've cumulated over the couple months since she realised it wasn't worth the trouble to keep cleaning a seat that nobody used, all of which points to the conclusion that you haven't lived here for a long time, this was a spontaneous decision on your part and you don't actually wish to kill yourself slowly, even though you might have subconsciously risked a fire, quite likely seeing as you suddenly fell asleep before making sure the tip was extinguished."
> 
>  

The words, streaming from a restless mouth without pause for any interjections, were spoken like a description given by a local to a clueless tourist. And it was this complete disregard of possible interruptions, the absolutely self-assured way this one-sentence deduction was delivered, that finally stopped the circuits in his brain from crashing and convinced John of the identity of the person occupying the leather seat.

 

* * *

 

It really was Sherlock, no matter how much John tried to argue with the facts that _there's a headstone_ , _there's fresh flowers_ from Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade every other day and _there were so many tears_ in John's first tea of the day, Sherlock kept sitting there, alive, apparently without a hole on the back of his skull and actually daring to look pleased with himself. A look that John could watch withering slightly with every second that passed without a reaction from him, although there wasn't a lot of satisfaction in that observation. John had no words and Sherlock's faint smirk disappeared completely as they just looked at each other.

 

Completely bizarre and yet so much like the old days, the tall, pale detective sat across his doctor in complete silence, and John sensed that he was awaiting judgment of some kind, that this was Sherlock giving away control of the situation and giving him time to adjust, and John couldn't help but think that this was somewhat ironic seeing how _time_ was the very essence of what had been destroyed by this very man who was lowering his defenses for John's scrutinizing stare.

Nevertheless, he wasn't going to let him get away ( _not again, no bloody way he gets to disappear again_ ).

 

Sherlock was still looking at him, still not saying a word, and now it was John's turn to deduce.

 


	4. Skin and Sentiment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John observes, and deduces.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally getting around to uploading this :)

> "It's just a magic trick."

 

Words that were spoken in a suicide note almost three years ago, and John was about to discover if they had been meant as a hint, or a taunt.

 

For the near-panic condition he'd been in before just from entering the flat (along with something that he might have called his version of a mind palace weren't it just a field on enemy territory that he had to maneuver in an unmanned tank), John was completely, utterly calm as his eyes roamed over Sherlock. The subject of observation had done him the favour of sliding even further into the soft shine of Baker Street's streetlights, and he could make out the differences and similarities of a face he thought he'd never see again, the hard edges, strong cheekbones and chin, new lines and old ones deepened. How long he just observed, John couldn't say, but finally he quietly cleared his throat (the panicked coughing in the kitchen left some pain there) and started to voice his thoughts to Sherlock, not unlike he had done to his ( _fake, thank god thank god thank you_ ) headstone a little over half a year ago.

John saw alert but exhausted eyes, worry lines and fine scars, hardened skin on the knuckles of Sherlock's hands were they rested on his knees. He saw skintone, clothes, hair, tiny movements of facial muscles and slight shifts of stance, and he deduced.

 

> "I'll say just one obvious thing now, but it will sum up everything I'll say from here on out: You've changed. First of all, your physique. You're a lot less gangly than you used to be. There's more muscle to you now, and even in a resting position it's apparent that you are quite strong. Generally, your stance is well-balanced and you are in excellent physical condition."

He couldn't help the somewhat betrayed tone that crept into his voice as he made that particular observation about the man whose bones he'd believed to have witnessed shattering.

 

> "Secondly, your clothes. You're wearing a customized Belstaff, but it can't be the old one since that one was bloodied and torn beyond saving, so a replica, chosen to make you look more familiar to me, maybe to make sure I would actually believe my eyes when I'd see you."

John silently added in his head that it had worked, being one of the most memorable items in Sherlock's wardrobe.

>  
> 
> "It's indeed indistinguishable from your old coat, the same size, which doesn't go for your trousers and shirt, they are a little larger in size to accommodate your changed frame. Now, why would you have built up strength? Judging from the skin of your knuckles, you've been in many fights, some of them not long ago as the skin is still healing in some places. So I suppose you've kept on chasing criminals", _without me_ , John silently added, "and it often included physical assault... so you've done some catching as well."

Some part of him both marveled and scoffed at the fact that this was probably the longest time Sherlock had ever listened to him without interrupting constantly.

 

> "Now, your hair. It's very short compared to the way you liked to wear it, most likely because it was impractical and also too recognizable. Also, it's not as curly as it used to be, which hints that you've dyed it multiple times, again to erase your trademark looks. Speaking of hair, there's a tiny razor cut on your cheek, not quite healed, meaning you shaved recently and it must've happened in a hurry since I can't think of a single time you had ever cut yourself while shaving; and also you might not be used used to doing it regularly anymore, probably kept a beard for some time and nicked yourself when you got rid of it. Back to the subject of skin... there are also no nicotine stains on your fingers, so you haven't taken up smoking again. Good news for brainwork, I suppose."

John wasn't exactly sure why he'd voiced that last observation, but Sherlock had looked a little proud at it, so he figured it was at least _a bit good_.

 

There was probably an abundant amount of things still waiting to be observed about the silent man in the leather chair, but John was no genius and he was no machine either, so he figured it was time to bring this exercise to an end.

 

> "So to sum it up, and I know you don't need that but I do, you have fought and run a lot in the last years and changed your appearance repeatedly. To conclude my deduction and also to make use of your willingness to actually listen to me, I will now give you some input about how the last years went for me, and don't bother saying that you've deduced it all, because _sentiment_ is neither obsolete nor obvious, as much as you like to say that."

 

He could sense Sherlock's reluctance to keep silent much longer, so John gave him a warning look that strongly suggested _don't you try me, mate_ and went on speaking before he could either get interrupted or carry out the constantly growing impulse of punching Sherlock straight in the face.

 

> "Well, obviously, as you would say, I have had theories. Theories that you weren't actually dead, that you had staged it, that you were another step ahead and just made Moriarty believe that he was the one in the lead. Some of them weren't worth crap, some of them seemed somewhat likely at the time, anyway, what I'm trying to say is... I did think of the possibility that you had fooled the world, and well, me. And yes, I know you give me some credit even though you called me an idiot most of the time. But I also know you would've realized that over time, I would stop believing in even the most logical theories."

At this, Sherlock's eyes dropped from John's face for just a fraction of a second, and when their gaze returned John made sure to show him he had noticed the flicker of worry in them, no matter how annoyed he was with himself now for still feeling like he had an obligation to soothe Sherlock's every insecurity.

 

> "Now don't give me that look. I never stopped believing in _you_ , I only stopped believing that you, and I repeat myself like an _idiot_ , might have tricked me and were actually alive and... scheming away without me as you have always been prone to do, and let me make very clear that YOU are a bloody idiot for that, always excluding everyone from your plans. It always made your friends worry, Sherlock", his voice caught a little when he realized this was the first time in years that he had called the name out to the actual person, "and it gives your enemies opportunities to attack you at moments even you can't foresee."

 

This time, Sherlock's eyes didn't leave his face, although they did narrow in slight annoyance.

 

> "Anyway", and it was simply astounding how Sherlock managed to infect him with annoyance just by being there when for all this time, him being there had been everything John had missed, "you must have known that within some time after your... fall... after I saw you...", here he had to clear his throat again, and Sherlock had the decency to look guilty.
> 
> "With every month that passed afterward, it seemed less and less likely that it was a 'magic trick' and more and more likely that you were indeed dead", he spat out the word to Sherlock and this time there was definitely satisfaction in the way the detective recoiled as if receiving a slap to the face, "and I... well, I fucking broke, Sherlock, and I'm not going to be whole again for quite some time. I stopped working at the clinic, I mostly stopped talking, and I stopped feeling anything but grief and anger. Most of the world believed you were a fake, nobody saw that Moriarty was not just an actor and some newspapers even wrote that you had bullied the man into suicide when word got out that he shot himself, and the injustice of it all still makes me want to kill something."
> 
> "And still, even though you must've known, at least to some extent, what your 'death' would do to me, you didn't reappear until now, three damn years later. Looking a lot worse for wear, too, so you haven't been away voluntarily. So, there. That's my big conclusion: You did not choose this. I'll go out on a limb and say that it's Moriarty's fault and he somehow blackmailed you into jumping, and since he shot himself he must've been one hundred percent certain you would actually do it even if he himself wasn't a threat anymore. That bit's actually somewhat romantic, him killing himself, thinking you would join him shortly."

The sick fucker, John mentally added.

 

> "But you had somehow anticipated his plan, staged your death and managed to convince the world of your tragic end. But instead of resurfacing shortly after, you stayed away for such a long time, which brings me to my final deduction – you were still being blackmailed and forced to stay in hiding, and while I can think of many reasons why you would comply to that, the most likely one is this: Moriarty had left behind a dangerous network that you felt compelled to neutralize, and it took you longer than you thought. The question that remains is: Why would you still keep the people closest to you in the dark, letting them grieve for you even though you were alive, all the while fighting Moriarty's forces on your own? And I think I know the answer to that, but I'd like to hear it from you."

 

Somewhat exhausted, John ceased his speech and leaned back in his chair, absentmindedly noticing that he was indeed sitting in a pile of dust on top of wax paper.

 

Sherlock closed his eyes briefly when John's deduction ended, nodded once as though reassuring himself, and looked at him again, no small amount of admiration in his eyes.

 

> "A veritably brilliant observation and mostly, a sound deduction, John. Goes to show that most of the public are sorely mistaken in their appraisal of your intellect. But there's one fact you have omitted." Despite the troubled look on his features, anxiety battling fatigue, there was a smile in Sherlock's voice.
> 
> "And what would that be?", John asked, warily as he vaguely suspected he might be about to be very humbled by something obvious that he had missed.

 

Sherlock smiled, but it looked sad.

 

> "I've missed you, John."
> 
>  


	5. Control and Collisions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The blogger confronts the detective.

 

> „I've missed you, John."
> 
>  

 

Somehow he had anticipated this. Somehow he'd known that Sherlock would play this card, but it didn't help to avoid the conflicts that appeared in his mind at hearing these words. So much relief at seeing that the silent, controlled vigilante that had so suddenly reappeared before him was still human underneath the strong façade, still insecure about elemental parts of human interaction, something John knew and recognized about Sherlock. But that relief was contrasting heavily with an instant feeling of suspicion. Wasn't this just another mask, donned to manipulate him? God knew it wouldn't be the first time.

 

John concentrated very hard to read Sherlock's face, but that sad smile had disappeared almost instantly and his expression was once again a fortress of aloof observation. Bloody typical, this sort of mind game. Feeding John a small glimpse of his vulnerable side, only to retreat the very next instant, leaving him confused and aching. Like now. He felt a surge of justified rage rushing through his mind as he replayed the many times Sherlock had done and said something similar, and just like that, John's infamous temper rose and the dazed hurt he had been feeling since waking up from his involuntary slumber transformed into anger.

* * *

 

“You've missed me.”

 

He spoke this quietly, but he could tell that his expression must've been thunderous for the subtle apprehension in Sherlock's eyes. Seemed the arrogant git hadn't expected John to be angry at his admission. Well, he was in for a fucking surprise.

 

 

“So you've _missed_ me. That's a marvel. And why exactly are you telling me this, right now? And how exactly am I supposed to believe you?” He knew that he was starting to raise his voice, but damn it, Sherlock deserved any shouting he was going to get. Sherlock, who made the last two years a living hell for him, not to mention the fucking insecurity of never knowing for sure. Never knowing if he was really, truly gone. Never knowing if he had ever really been here at all, tangible and real, friend and flatmate, or just a persona, a mask on top of another mask.

 

“I've always trusted you, and you've always, always made me feel like a fool for it.” John couldn't help but think of Molly at this, the sound of her voice, shaken, on a Christmas eve years past. _Always, always_.

 

“You've told me I was your only friend. I believed you. You've told me to believe in you. Against any odds, I did. And I thought that to some extent, you believed in me as well, because that's what friends do, not that you would know. Not that you would feel it. You've probably disabled that function in your own system, convincing yourself that you're so bloody exceptional you could just choose to erase everything and anything that interferes with your analytical side, deleting away with abandon, leaving all those who gave their time and devotion to you locked out. It's so fucking unfair and you are so bloody righteous about it that it makes me _sick_.”

 

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, but John just waltzed over him, by now too overwhelmed by everything – memory and present time alike – to give a damn about his input.

 

“And I always thought that even though you were able to willingly forget things like the solar system, even you couldn't truly delete emotion and affection; I thought I knew you better than most people. I thought I truly knew you, the person behind the genius, and I thought you were a good man and a troubled human being and that you were actually hurting when people would call you emotionless or freak or whatever the hell else their jealousy would make them say. And then you _died_ , and I grieved and blamed myself and I couldn't do a damn thing. So many months I staid in denial, always thinking you'd come back with some thrilling explanation and a plan for _us_ to stop Moriarty for good.”

 

John took a deep breath and made sure to look Sherlock in the eyes for the next bit because it was somehow indispensable that Sherlock understood this part, understood what he had done to him.

 

“But you didn't. You let me grieve. And let me tell you, I grieved like a fucking champion. I've never grieved this hard in my life, and I've lost so many people before I met you. But you already know that, don't you? I'm actually sure”, he could almost swear he saw a red tinge on the edge of his vision at this point, “that you've kept track of me, knew about my... about what I was going through and still you wouldn't do anything to let me know...”

 

John was grasping for words then, which was strange since just a moment ago they'd seemed never-ending, pouring out of his mouth like blood gushing from superficial head wounds, and Sherlock (the familiar face now definitely framed in red to John's eyes) seized the opportunity to speak up.

* * *

 

 

“I wanted to. But initiating contact would have left you vulnerable again, I couldn't be sure that you wouldn't start behaving differently, getting Moriarty's agents on your track again...”, Sherlock looked startled for a moment, like he was going to say something completely different, and John could almost hear the slide of a mask slipped back on as Sherlock's mouth twisted in a dishonest, huge smile. “What with you wearing your emotions on your face like that, John, it's always been an impedi-”

 

The sentence was cut off rather abruptly when John's fist collided with Sherlock's jaw. Funny, John hadn't even noticed that he had crossed the short distance between them until that satisfying, hard crack of knuckles against bone. Unintended, John now wore a smile that was eerily rather similar to the one of the consulting detective just seconds ago, similar in the dishonesty, hiding pain in plain sight.

 

“Don't you try act like you don't know about emotion, Sherlock. Don't you dare lie to me again just now. You know damn well that you've hurt me, and you will admit it, even if I have to _beat_ it _out_ of you-” And his voice evaporated with the intensity of his anger at Sherlock's response, somewhat slurred as he pressed his right hand against the broken tissue of his lower lip.

 

“Do it, then, since you obviously can't help it. This is exactly why I continue to choose reason over sentiment, John... It's the end of all self-control.”

* * *

 

 

John was loathe to prove him right. That didn't keep him from tackling the arrogant sod, resulting in Sherlock falling sideways from the leather chair. John was kneeling over him now, fist raised (when did that happen?) and ready to smack into Sherlock's face again, when he realized that Sherlock was neither struggling or even bracing himself against the hit. On the contrary, he was just looking up at John with a vacant expression, betraying the mocking smirk that had accompanied his last sentence just seconds ago.

 

A heartbeat passed with neither of them saying a word, Sherlock still staring at (or rather through) John like someone thrust into unknown waters, and then John suddenly understood what Sherlock was trying to do. Another beat of silence, then he let go of Sherlock and sat back on his heels. Their impact on the rug had sent the dust flying again, and the white particles were gleaming in the light of the street lamps, a startling contrast to the dark in Sherlock's eyes. A darkness John recognized, both from himself and the man who had been his best friend two years ago (and never really stopped being exactly that, John belatedly realized).

 

“And you'd let me, huh? I bet you think you're doing me a big favour right now, keeping your thoughts to yourself. Because that's how it's always been with us, hasn't it? You would claim that you have no emotions, and I would play along with it and let out twice as much as one person should need to. But you know what, Sherlock? It's always been rather pointless, you taking this route. Because I knew you then, and I sure as hell know you now, no matter how long it's been and how much I might like to rip your bloody head off just now.”

 

A split-second expression of surprise at being caught appeared on Sherlock's face at this declaration, erased again very quickly, but John knew he hadn't imagined it at all.

 

“...so what route would you suggest to take, then?”, Sherlock asked quietly and sat up as well, both of them seated on the rug now.

 

“The only one there is, actually”, John answered. “The only one I've ever taken.”

 

The last part of the sentence was left unspoken. _Towards you_. But their sound was obsolete as he reached out a hand toward those unsure liar's eyes.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually forgot to post this here, ahem. But on the plus side, I discovered that mistake because I have just finished the next chapter, and will upload it soon! (And this time I will do it on time....)
> 
> As always, thank you for reading :D

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading :) Chapter 2-4 have been completed already and will be uploaded shortly. I plan this to be around 8-10 chapters when I'm finished ^^


End file.
